


a sparrow with broken wings

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: American Sign Language, Anorexia, Brotherly Love, Bulimia, Dean Winchester Has an Eating Disorder, Dean Winchester Whump, Dreams, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Fix-It of Sorts, Food Issues, Grief/Mourning, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Cas dies. The world disappears. Dean stops eating.Cas dies. The world comes back. Jack leaves. Dean stops eating.Cas dies, and Dean stops eating, and he keeps on dreaming.-(“You’ll be gone by the time I come back,” Cas says sadly.Dean smiled at him, content and serene, and slowly signed, rusty from lack of use,“I can’t stop.”)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 246
Collections: Anonymous





	a sparrow with broken wings

**Author's Note:**

> So, I churned this out in three days. I poured a lot of myself into it, since a lot of the experiences here are based on my own. It was really rough to visit my past, my current life, but I enjoyed myself and felt a bunch of relief while writing this. I consider it a vent fic, honestly, and I just wanted to share it with y'all as well.
> 
> I had a relapse currently and I'm dealing with it. So, I guess this is for me, too. 
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING: Eating Disorders, Anorexia, Bulimia**

> ❝ grief creates this empty void,  
> all-consuming and ever-lasting;  
> the bridge that connects  
> life and death  
> collapses, with a breath,  
> and all that’s left is desolation;  
> a hunger that is never sated. ❞
> 
> — _without you, i am nothing_ // v

❦ ❦ ❦

It’s not a conscious decision, no; Dean didn’t _choose_ to stop eating, it was just something that integrated itself into his very being.

One day, he could chomp down on a whole pizza and be happy. The next day, Cas got taken to the empty, leaving Dean with a hole in his chest and a bloody handprint on his jacket. On the third day, he tossed out his full plate after he sat there for an hour, unable to take a bite. Alcohol already lined his stomach, but it still wasn’t enough to numb the despair that was thrumming through him.

And then it just stuck with him, and he didn’t care enough to shake it loose.

He didn’t care much about anything anymore.

Jack and Sam don’t notice. Everyone’s too busy trying to figure out how to defeat God, and then they’ve got Lucifer and Michael in the mix, too. Dean helps out when he can, but his mind drifts whenever he’s forced to read text, and the weight on his shoulders grows heavier when he remembers the final words he heard from Cas.

_“I love you.”_

Dean once thought that hearing a confession from Cas would fill him with joy because having his feelings returned was something he never expected out of this life. Instead, hearing it filled him with cold, hard dread, and it left him with a lump in his throat, eyes burning from the onslaught of tears.

And now he has to live with the fact that Cas died thinking that Dean doesn’t feel the same. Cas died thinking that he could never have Dean. Cas _died,_ and Dean couldn’t do a single goddamn thing.

Maybe it’s the guilt that keeps him from eating, or maybe he’s trying to combat the empty void in his heart by creating one in his stomach, so he can just focus on not allowing a single morsel of food to enter his mouth while ignoring the pain.

 _Or maybe,_ Dean thinks as he tosses the eggs and bacon that he just made. The smell will linger in the kitchen and make everyone think that he’s fine. _Maybe you’re just hoping to fade away._

It makes sense. Being dead sounds much better than being alive right now.

❦ ❦ ❦

“Dean.”

That familiar, gravelly voice nearly sends him to his knees, but Dean reins it all in. He pushes it down into a box and locks it away, turning to stare at his best friend’s face. Cas looks haggard, tired, but his bright, blue eyes still gaze at Dean with something soft in them.

“Cas,” Dean returns, feeling himself relax. He glances around and feels himself falter, realizing that it’s only a dream—the lack of a breeze, the eerie, far-off noises of creatures, and the towering trees remind him of where they are. “Right,” he adds quietly, releasing a self-deprecating chuckle. “Of course it’s not you.”

The dream Castiel cocks his head to the side, so similar to the way Cas did whenever he was confused about the human things that Dean did. “And if it were me?” he asks, moving closer. “What would you say?”

 _I miss you,_ comes to mind, and it nearly spills from Dean’s mouth. _I think about you every damn day. I can’t get you out of my head. I miss you so much that it hurts to breathe. I don’t know how I can keep doing this without you._

What comes out is: “Why did you leave me?”

Sorrow flits across Cas’s face, shoulders drooping. “I find myself wishing that I didn’t,” he says solemnly. “But if I was once again faced with the choice of leaving to keep you safe, then I’d do it again and again.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Dean whispers. “I didn’t want you to do that.”

“You don’t have to,” Cas says. “I did it for myself.”

Dean wakes up, shooting up in bed with a clammy body and a racing heart. He covers his face with shaking hands, and pretends that his exhale isn’t close to a sob. And when he can’t pretend anymore, he reaches over to snatch the bottle of whiskey off his bedside table, taking a swig of it to numb the pain.

(It won’t work anyways.)

❦ ❦ ❦

“You doin’ okay?”

Dean looks up to see Sam, staring down at him with that concerned furrow to his brows, the hint of puppy-eyes that are supposed to make Dean spill everything wrong.

“I’m fine,” he replies automatically, clicking on a different article. He stares at the words, but they start blurring together, not allowing him to retain any of the information. Dean glances up at Sam again, sighing when he sees the disbelief on his face.

“I don’t believe that,” Sam says, as if Dean hadn’t already guessed that outcome. “You know you can talk to me, Dean.”

And Sam takes a seat across from him, grabbing the sandwich that Dean left there when he started his research binge. Sam doesn’t eat it, though. Instead, he pushes it closer to Dean, and not-so-subtly slides the beer bottle away.

 _Guess Sammy knows that something’s up,_ Dean thinks, barely containing his scowl. He grabs the sandwich with one hand and takes a large bite to appease his brother. It tastes slimy and bland, and Dean fights his instinct to gag over the taste. He counts the seconds it takes to chew that bite, trying to distract himself from the food, and swallows once he’s done. It travels down his throat, and he swears that he feels it sitting in his stomach, heavy and toxic.

“See?” he says, setting the sandwich down and shoving it away. Dean reaches over and grabs the beer, taking a small swig of it to wash it down. “M’fine.”

And there it is, Bitchface Number Whatever. It lingers for a moment, and then Sam’s face softens, the look disappearing. “Dean,” he says quietly, urgently. “I mean it, you know? You can talk to me about anything. If you want me to be quiet, then I will.”

“Sam,” Dean replies, exasperated. 

“You think I don’t know that something’s wrong?” Sam barrels forward, gazing at Dean with tired eyes. “You think I don’t know that you’re suffering? I’m just trying to be here for you, Dean. I want to be here for you, but I need you to meet me halfway.”

Dean stays silent, observing Sam with pursed lips. He leans back against his chair and rubs his temple with one hand, releasing a sigh. “Sam,” he starts, voice quiet. “Leave it be.”

“Dean—”

“Sammy,” Dean says, and he doesn’t even bother trying to hide the plea in his voice. “Please.”

Sam stares at him sadly, shoulders slumped. “Okay,” he says, getting up. “Okay, Dean.” He moves around the table and pauses by Dean’s side, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezing. “I’ll be around.”

Dean looks up and offers a wry smile. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says. “I’m—”

_drowning. I’m held down beneath the waves by this task that we’ve taken up. My head breaks the surface, but I’m dragged back under whenever I’m reminded of what I lost. I feel like I can’t breathe, sometimes. I want to drink myself into oblivion, I want to sew my mouth shut to stop myself from saying anything, to stop myself from eating._

_I want to be with Cas._

“—fine.”

They both know that he’s lying.

❦ ❦ ❦

“When was that moment for you?” Dean wonders one time. “When you realized you loved me?”

They’re sitting at the dock where his dad once took him fishing. Dean’s got his fishing pole out, bobber in the water, and for the first time in forever, he feels a sense of peace. He glances over at Cas, who gazes out at the still waters with something akin to serenity. Dean wishes he could capture this moment in a picture to keep with him at all times.

 _Too sappy,_ Dean thinks with a grimace.

“I don’t think there was a particular moment for me,” Cas answers, hands clasped demurely in his lap. “I have loved you for a long time, Dean Winchester. There was no shock when my feelings became known, only a sense of rightness, as if it were always meant to be.”

“Oh,” Dean says.

“I do know when I first felt drawn to you,” Cas continues in a much lighter tone, his expression thoughtful, eyes far-away—lost in a memory, probably. “When I flew through the depths of Hell, I found you because of your soul. Despite the tarnished aura of Hell, you still shone brightly, the most purest thing I had ever seen. I was transfixed by your image, by the bright green eyes that carried all the hope that they had yet to tear out of you, and I was in your orbit ever since.”

“I don’t remember that,” Dean comments softly.

“You wouldn’t,” Cas says, not unkindly. “Even as a soul, my celestial body would be difficult to perceive. Your mind probably protected you from such a thing.”

“I wish I remembered.”

“I know.”

“I wish you were here.”

“I know that, too.”

The white clouds above them slowly start to darken, and Dean lets out a ragged breath as the first droplet of rain touches his cheek. A hand rests itself on his left arm, where that handprint once laid, and Dean feels a bolt of electricity shoot down his spine.

“Dean,” Cas says. “Take care of yourself.”

When Dean wakes up this time, he doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not hurting. He curls up on his side, curling a hand around his arm, and imagines that he can feel remnants of Cas’s warmth on his skin.

“When I realized that you died,” Dean whispers in the dark, salt staining the pillow beneath him. “At Chuck’s house. Grief dragged me down. When I saw you again, and you saved us from Zachariah, joy lifted me up, but I could never say, could never let myself think about it, and I wish I didn’t.” A sigh that’s more like a sob. “And then Purgatory, that’s when I realized that I couldn’t live without you."

There is no response, and Dean curls up in bed, wishing that he’d been the one to go.

❦ ❦ ❦

Even after they defeat Chuck, even after the world goes back to normal, even after Jack leaves them to be a better God than the previous one, Dean still struggles to eat.

He should be happy that he’s still alive, that he’s not suffering through the injuries that Chuck forced upon him, that Miracle came back to him and sleeps in the corner of his room, but nothing can feel the emptiness that’s made a home in him, not even that temporary joy.

Dean goes through the motions—get up, make breakfast for Sammy and Miracle, give half of his plate to the dog so it looks like he cleared most of it, force a couple of bites into his mouth to have enough energy for the day, and then spend the rest of his time searching for a hunt. When Sam’s out or asleep, Dean will work up enough courage to venture into the library, tentatively searching for any information on the Empty.

He doesn’t dare get his hopes up.

Sometimes, it gets too much, and Dean ends up locked in his bedroom, drinking and drinking and drinking until he’s forced onto his knees in front of the porcelain toilet bowl, clutching it while the alcohol and the barest amount of food comes back up. It’s always a relief to have it all out of him, but it never stops making him feel like crap.

Sometimes, he has good days. He’ll move around the bunker, less like a ghost and more like a human, and he’ll whistle a tune that’s stuck in his head. Dean will make his hips sway when he’s flipping pancakes, and he’ll even sit around somewhere cozy, Miracle pressed against his side, while he watches a movie on his laptop.

Sam likes to make dinner during these days. He’ll create a huge feast for just the both of them, and Dean will feel okay enough to eat a plateful of it, and sometimes grab seconds. They’ll end the night on a bright note, and then Dean will go to his bathroom, lock the door, stand in front of the toilet, and stick two fingers down his throat.

He’ll be hoarse and queasy afterwards, but all he has to do is brush his teeth, drink some water, and then crash into his bed. 

Despite those good days, and his ability to actually eat, he knows that he doesn’t deserve to, not while he’s still alive. So, it comes back up—a punishment he needs to take.

And when there’s eventually a hint of blood coming out of him, and his knuckles are smeared with it, Dean can’t help but think that it’s fitting for him to break apart to something wholly _human._

Dean has to start piling on layers upon the layers already on him to not make Sam suspicious. It’s not like it’s unnecessary since the season’s starting to change, and a chill has somehow worked its way into the hollows of his bones.

He’s good. Cold, but good.

(He needs to stop lying to himself.)

❦ ❦ ❦

Cas is waiting for him when he falls into dreams, only this time they’re on opposite sides—Dean in the panic room he was stuck in when he went off to try and say ‘yes’ to Michael, and Cas on the outside, staring him down.

“What?” he bites out, and the anger surprises him. Maybe it’s leftover from this memory. That has to be it. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” Cas intones with a tilt of his head, eyes narrowing. “I’m looking at you, Dean.”

“And what do you see?” Dean wonders, spreading his arms. “Do you see the broken man that I am? Do you see my hopelessness? My despair? What the hell are you seeing, Cas?”

The fan spins slowly above him, creaking here and there. It’s the only noise in the silence that follows, no Sam or Bobby speaking in hushed tones upstairs. How strange.

“All I see is what you’re doing to yourself,” Cas says, hands loose at his sides. Something more raw and human flickers onto his face, and there’s pain in his eyes when he gazes at Dean. “And my regret threatens to consume me.”

Dean says nothing, dropping down onto the old chair in the room. He stares back at Castiel defiantly, wrapping his right hand around his left wrist, feeling a rush of victory when his fingers barely touch. He’s getting there. 

“Dean,” Cas says, and there’s an edge of desperation to his voice. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Dean says.

“What can I do to make it better?” Cas asks. “What can I do to fix this?”

Dean chews on his bottom lip, observing the angel. Cas looks tired, withdrawn, but there’s a fire in him, one that’s burnt out of Dean. He exhales and rubs a hand down his face, leaning forward and meeting Cas’s eyes.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he says. “This is just a dream, right? My imagination is trying to help me work through my grief or whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes—that sounded a little too much like Sammy. “You can’t fix what’s broken, dream Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas says indignantly. “This isn’t—”

Dream Cas gets cut off by someone shaking Dean’s shoulder, forcing him back to the land of wakefulness. He blearily stares up at Sam, who gazes back with a look of exasperation.

“What?” he rasps out, voice sleep-worn and husky.

“I made breakfast,” Sam says, already moving to leave the room. “Gonna take Miracle for a jog, okay? And then we’ll look for a hunt.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles. He waits for the sound of Sam’s footsteps to leave before exiting his bed, making his way into the bathroom for his morning routine. Dean glances at his reflection, eyes flitting over the collarbone that’s starting to show, the imprint of his ribs that shows up when he breathes, and the small jut of his hip bones, and lets out a breath.

“Time to get through another day,” he says. It doesn’t reassure him as well as he hoped.

❦ ❦ ❦

Sometimes, Dean allows himself to think about the good times with Cas, letting the memories wash over him and reawaken the good feelings it brought. It’s the good sort of pain, but it always leaves him with a yearning that tears him apart inside.

One memory, in particular, is something that Dean keeps close to his heart.

He had dragged Cas out of the bunker one morning, way before the sun was up. Dean wasn’t sleeping well at the time, and the angel never slept, so he easily agreed to Dean’s request to watch the sunrise with him.

Dean drove them out to an empty field nearby, where nothing could obscure their vision and no one could disturb them. He sat on top of his Impala and took a hot minute to convince Cas to join him, which the angel did after a moment, and he sat there stiffly, like he was unsure of what he should do, and he only relaxed when Dean knocked their shoulders together.

And when the sun started rising, the sky shifting from blue to purple, with red and orange spilling in, Dean couldn’t help but smile. Contentment flooded through him, and it was one of the rare moments where he felt at peace.

When he glanced over at Cas to catch his reaction, he was stumped when he realized that Cas had already been looking at him.

“Uh,” Dean said, scrambling for words. “Did you like it?”

Cas had smiled, then. It was a small thing, barely there, but it softened his face. “Beautiful,” he commented, and he didn’t move his eyes away from Dean as he said this. 

Dean wonders (now) if he should have known, back then. If he should have read the look on Cas’s face more deeply, if he should have figured out that there was a _moment_ between them, back then. Would it have made a difference?

_“When I experienced a moment of true happiness, the Empty would be summoned and it would take me forever.”_

Probably not. 

If the asshole thought his true happiness was confessing his love to Dean in spite of him thinking that there was no chance for them, then the Empty would have snatched Cas up had Dean confessed at any time.

Perhaps they were doomed from the start.

(And even though Chuck is powerless, Dean knows that the bastard is out there somewhere, laughing at him.)

❦ ❦ ❦

Nightmares often keep him trapped in sleep, unable to tear himself out of those wretched memories no matter how hard he wants to be free.

He dreams of _heat/blood/pain/screams_ and he dreams of _instinct/monsters/adrenaline/fear._ Another thing that trickles in sometimes is the sensation of being trapped underwater, lost in moments of happiness and peace when Michael wanted to shut him up, or lost in moments of trauma when Michael was particularly annoyed with his defiance.

There’s always one that disturbs him the most, though. It’s a memory of Hell, when he was still stuck on the rack and Alastair was trying to get him to break. There’s no need to eat down there, but the hunger pains lingered, and the aching emptiness in his gut was hard to ignore. Sometimes, the demon would shove Dean’s own guts down his throat, always with that smile on his face, always with that glint in his eyes, and Dean would choke it down in an attempt to quell the hunger in his soul.

Whenever he had this nightmare, he’d wake up with a parched throat and a growling stomach, and he’d hate himself for it. Dean would get dizzy with hunger on those days, and he _lived_ for the sensation. Sometimes, hunger reminded him of his mistakes.

Other times, hunger reminded him of how human and breakable he was.

Purgatory dreams are different. He was never hungry in there, but all the other hungry creatures constantly chased him down, desperate for a taste of the one human that was in there. Dean didn’t have to sleep or eat, and all he had to do was survive until he could get out of there. 

A part of him also _liked_ Purgatory. There was a freedom there, and he didn’t have to worry about simple human things (other than his brother). He could fall back onto his basic instincts, free to kill monster after monster whenever they came after him.

He woke up from those with a lack of an appetite, feeling like he already ate despite existing on less than five hundred calories. Dean could go about his day without a single piece of food entering his mouth, and he’d be cheery about it more often than not.

Purgatory was nice like that.

Michael dreams, on the other hand, left him with an empty void that grew bigger and bigger as the day passed. Food usually filled it, but eating on those days would lead him to his salvation—two fingers and a date with the toilet bowl.

What all of his dreams share in common is that they always end with him brokenly calling out for an angel, _his_ angel, over and over again until he loses his voice. He’ll hear the rustle of feathers, catch a flash of baby blue, and even smell nature after it rains, paired with the crisp burn of a lightning strike. Signs of Castiel that his mind makes up, but no actual angel to save him.

But he never did, and Dean would wake up with the reminder that Cas wasn’t there anymore.

(“Don’t leave me,” Dean chokes out one night, clinging to Cas’s trenchcoat. They’re in the barn where they first met, and Cas is staring down at him with sorrow in his blue eyes. “Please stop leaving me, Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas breathes, and when he dips his head, the kiss that he presses to Dean’s forehead is soft and feather-light, both real and not. “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

“Come back to me,” Dean can’t help but plead. It’s a dream. No one will judge him.

“I’m trying.”

And Dean just buries his face in Cas’s shoulder, feeling the angel wrap his arms around him, and then he gives into the emotions that are sweeping him under the current, tears slipping from his eyes and staining that damn coat that he loves.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, and there’s a hint of concern to his words, as well as sadness. “What are you doing to yourself?”

Dean didn’t answer, but he kept clinging to the figure from his dreams.)

❦ ❦ ❦

“How you doin’?”

Dean allows his head to loll back, tasting a bit of copper in his mouth when he presses his tongue against his teeth. “Golden,” he drawls, stomach trembling. He hasn’t eaten in two days, and he just managed to force a few pretzels into his mouth. Judging by the way his stomach churns, those will probably come right back up.

Sam frowns. “Come on, Dean,” he says. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about,” Dean replies. His vision blurs when he reaches for his water bottle, and he messes up on twisting the cap off a couple of times before he finally gets it right. “I’m fine and dandy, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam says with a frustrated exhale. His hands curl into fists on the table, and he’s staring at Dean with a clenched jaw. “You don’t have to pretend with me, okay? I know something’s up with you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah! You’ve been this way ever since Cas got taken into the Empty,” Sam says, lips turned downward. “Which you never elaborated on, by the way!”

“Sam, I’m not going to talk about this right now,” Dean says, panic making his pulse race. No, he can’t revisit that memory, he _won’t._ He pushes himself up, grabbing his water and his phone, and makes to leave. “Just drop it, okay?”

He stops at the doorway when he starts to sway, gripping the wood and waiting for the moment to pass. Dean thinks that he hears Sam calling his name, but the sound of his heartbeat is too loud, rapid, and fueled by anxiety. He exhales after it passes, blinking away the black spots in his vision, and when he looks up, he nearly flinches away at seeing the anger in Sam’s face.

“Something’s wrong with you, Dean!” Sam says, and then he’s being dragged down the hall, Sam’s iron grip on his bicep keeping him from leaving. Nothing else is said on the way there, and Sam continues to seethe in stony silence even when they enter Dean’s bedroom and he’s guided to sit on Sam’s bed.

“Stay,” Sam bites out, and then leaves Dean’s room. Dean thinks he hears some clattering in the kitchen, but his head is swimming too much to pay attention. He lies down on his side, and tells himself that he’ll only close his eyes for a second… 

❦ ❦ ❦

He’s in the bar when Cas walks in, striding across the room with purpose. Dean waves down the barkeep and requests another beer, and it’s set down by his arm when Cas slides onto the stool beside Dean, and he welcomes the angel with a smile.

“Cas,” he greets, taking a swig of beer. It tastes like nothing, really, but that’s what dreams are all about.

“Dean,” Cas says back, only this time it’s short, almost irritated. “What have you done?”

Dean frowns, glancing over at him. “What do you mean?” he asks, nudging him with his elbow. He winces when the jab hurts a little, and sets his beer down to rub his poor elbow. It’s a little more bony, this time, so that’s probably why.

Cas wraps a hand around Dean’s wrist, and his hand easily goes all the way. His thumb connects to his index finger without trouble, and there’s enough space in between to fit something else. “This,” Cas says, and he sounds hurt. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Dean snatches his wrist back, directing his scowl towards the counter. His wrist tingles from the angel’s touch, but he knows it’s just his mind trying to make things better. “Why does it matter?” he spits out, nails digging into the palms of his hands. “I don’t have to explain anything to you! You’re not even real!”

“Oh, Dean.” Cas rests a hand on his shoulder, barely skimming the spot where the handprint used to be. “Can’t you see the truth?”

❦ ❦ ❦

Someone’s shaking his shoulder again, and when Dean blindly swats at them, he hears Sam’s tired sigh. He grumbles a bit and sits up, glaring at Sam. “What?” Dean asks, crossing his arms.

“I’ve been trying to wake you up for about five minutes,” Sam says with a scowl.

“Why didn’t you let me sleep?” Dean huffs, rubbing his eyes. His limbs feel too heavy, and his head is pounding. He squints in Sam’s direction, idly measuring his wrist like Cas did in his dream.

“I didn’t want your soup to get cold,” Sam informs him, and then he moves toward Dean’s desk. There’s a tray with a bowl on top, and Sam carefully brings it over to Dean before setting it down on his lap. 

Dean stares down at it, and then he looks up at his brother. “I’m not hungry,” he says. “I’m fine, Sammy. Really.”

“Dean,” Sam says flatly. He rubs a hand down his face, and suddenly he looks tired, years older. Dean hates himself for putting that look on Sam’s face. “You say that you’re fine, right?” he asks and then gestures to the soup after Dean nods. “Well, then eat the soup.”

Dean drops his gaze, staring into the bowl of tomato rice soup. It smells pretty good (his mouth is starting to water over it), but his twisting stomach tells him that it’s not a good idea. “Sam, I can’t,” he says quietly.

“Eat the soup,” Sam says again, voice urgent, desperate. “Dean, please.”

“I really can’t,” he replies.

“ _Dean._ ” There’s that frustrated voice. “ _Eat._ ”

He has the sudden desire to throw this bowl across the room, to hear it shatter and watch the soup splatter against the floor. Rage, heady and overpowering, nearly takes him over, but Dean stops himself from doing it. He doesn’t want to put that sad look on Sammy’s face again, and he doesn’t want to make a mess that he’ll have to clean up.

“Fine,” he mumbles and uses the spoon to scoop up some soup. Steam rises off it when he brings it up, and he stares down at it with trepidation. Seconds crawl by, the heat of Sam’s stare burning into Dean, before Dean finally shoves the spoonful in his mouth. He tries not to think about the texture of the soup, the taste of it exploding on his tongue, and he squashes down the urge to shove this whole thing down his throat.

Dean manages a couple of more bites before shaking his head, setting the tray aside. “There,” he says plainly. “I ate.”

The soup is burning a hole in his stomach already, and he envisions a trip to the bathroom once Sam’s gone.

But then Sam takes a seat on Dean’s chair, gazing at him with a sternness that Dean always saw on their father’s face. “All of it,” he says, leaning back with his arms crossed.

Dean wants to throw the soup at his face.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he drags the tray back onto his lap, trying not to cry as he slowly starts working his way through the meal. By the halfway point, he’s starting to feel bloated and heavy, and he thinks he might be sweating a little. When he’s finally done with it, spoon clattering against the bottom of the bowl, Dean feels woozy and off-balance and his stomach is cramping.

The tray moves off his lap, and the bed dips with another weight. Sam’s hand, large and comforting, rests itself on his back, rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder. 

Dean ducks his head and tries to breathe, focusing on Sam’s ministrations, on the faint sounds that echo through the bunker, anything to get his mind off the soup he just ate, but it’s getting harder and harder to do that with each passing second.

“See?” he grits out eventually. “Fine.”

And then his stomach lurches.

He shoots to his feet and dashes into the bathroom. His knees ache when he sinks to the floor, but his aim is correct when the soup comes back up and into the toilet. Dean can feel a hand on his back again, and his eyes sting with embarrassed tears when he realizes that Sam’s comforting him, that Sam’s watching him do this.

 _At least I didn’t do it to myself,_ Dean thinks after he’s done. Reaching up to flush the toilet before leaning against the wall. He glances over at Sam, who sits beside him, and sighs at the concerned look on his face.

“Dean,” he says softly, carefully. “You’re not okay.”

Dean swallows the blood in his throat and offers a mirthless smile. “Am I ever?” he replies and receives no response.

❦ ❦ ❦

“You’re killing yourself,” Cas scolds him one night. They’re sitting by the stream in Purgatory, and it’s quiet, just the two of them.

Dean tips his head back with a laugh, wishing he could feel the sunlight on his face. “And?” he counters, a self-deprecating smile on his face when he glances over at Cas. “I’m already dead inside.”

“That’s not true. I know it’s not.”

“It was true the moment I saw the Empty take you,” Dean replies airily. He shifts his hand over, fingers brushing over Cas’s. The touch gives him a spark of warmth. “It was true the moment I lost you.”

❦ ❦ ❦

_Sam’s gonna make a hole in the floor with all of this pacing,_ Dean thinks, watching his little brother move about the library. Dean’s wrapped up in a couple of blankets, a steaming mug of tea in front of him (at Sam’s insistence, whatever), and he’s watching Sam lose himself to his thoughts.

“We have to figure out a way to keep you on schedule,” Sam mutters, but it’s loud enough for Dean to hear. “Maybe we can have meals at the same time?”

“Can’t be a whole bowl of soup,” Dean says out loud. “Or else I’ll blow chunks again.”

Sam stops and turns to him, fixing him with a narrow-eyed stare. “That wouldn’t happen if you were just restricting your food,” he says plainly. He takes a seat on one of the chairs across from Dean, frowning. “That’s all you’re doing, right?”

“Yes, that’s all I’m doing,” Dean lies smoothly. He shifts on the seat, trying to get comfortable, and scowls at Sam. “You try eating a huge bowl of soup after barely eating for a while and then tell me if it makes you sick or not.”

Sam falters. “Sorry, Dean,” he murmurs, tapping his fingers along the desk. “Guess I didn’t think of it like that.” He sighs and combs fingers through his long hair. It’s looking a little greasy—Sammy hasn’t been taking care of himself, either.

“I just don’t understand,” Sam says after a while, gazing at Dean solemnly. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

(Cas’s voice echoes in his head.)

Dean swallows and averts his gaze, focusing on the lamp on the farthest wall. “I—” he starts. Stops. Lets out a breath. “I wish I could tell you why, Sammy,” he says quietly, fiddling with the edge of his blanket. “But honestly, _I_ don’t even know the real reason. It just sorta happened.”

“These things don’t just happen, Dean,” Sam replies, but he’s relaxing a little.

Dean offers a half-hearted shrug. “Then I don’t know what to tell you,” he says. His head swims and he burrows into the blankets, closing his eyes. “M’just gonna rest here for a bit,” he mutters. “You get back to your geeky research, or whatever it is that you’re doing.”

“I’m trying to figure out ways to help you,” Sam says softly, and Dean feels a spark of warmth, the best thing he’s felt in _months._ “I want you to get better, man. I can’t lose you.”

His eyes burn from beneath his eyelids, and he’s got a sudden lump in his throat. Dean wishes he could tell Sam that it’ll be okay, that he’ll get better, but he knows there’s a higher chance of him dying over him willingly giving this… _thing_ up. 

A part of him _loves_ the fact that his bones are becoming more and more prominent, and it also relishes in the feeling of hunger that gnaws at his stomach. The sick feeling he gets after making himself throw up is like a rush, heady and addictive, and the light-headedness he gets from not eating gives him a similar reaction.

Yeah. There’s no way he’s letting this go, not now.

He deserves all of the pain he gets with this, he deserves to not eat, and he deserves to force it back up whenever he does. Dean is unworthy of food, life, and it’s because he couldn’t save Cas.

Dean drifts off to the sound of Sam turning pages, wishing that he could just disappear.

❦ ❦ ❦

They’re in the bunker this time, the soft light illuminating Castiel’s hair, giving him the illusion of a halo. Two beer bottles sit untouched in front of them, condensation making water slowly drip down the bottle; both beings sat on either side of the table, staring each other down since they’ve got nothing better to do.

“Dean,” Cas says, drumming his fingers along the table. “Are you punishing yourself? Is that it?”

“Does it matter?” Dean counters, swinging his boots up onto the table. He leans back in his chair and arches a brow. “Shouldn’t you already know the truth, dream Cas? You’re only a figment of my imagination.”

Cas’s face hardens, and then he releases a sigh. “I should have known that you’d fall back into denial,” he mutters. Cas shakes his head after a while, and the look that he fixes onto Dean pins him in place. “Dean,” he says. “I’m begging you, please take care of yourself. I can’t watch you get thin enough to resemble Death.”

“And?” Dean replies. “Look, I know you’re my conscience and all, but you should know how I feel about this. You know my deepest fears and insecurities, so I don’t know why you’re trying so hard to stop me from doing this.

Cas rises from his seat, and his rage is so obvious, eyes glowing with blue light, and the shadow of wings arching up behind his back. _“I don’t want you to die!”_ he shouts, and it echoes across the room.

“Yeah, well, maybe I want to!” Dean shouts back, jumping up. His whole body is shaking with anger, irritation, and it’s enough to make him sway. “You ever think about that, huh?”

Dream Cas says nothing.

Dean scoffs and kicks the chair over, his foot protesting from the action. He crosses his arms and clicks his tongue, averting his gaze from the angel. “It doesn’t matter,” Dean adds in a rather shaky voice, wishing he could keep his composure even in dreams. “Because you’re not here, Cas.”

He hears the rustle of wings, and he knows without looking that Cas is gone. Dean’s legs shake, and then he falls to his knees, palms flat against the floor as he tries to breathe. His nails scrape against the wood, chest tight, and the tears slip down his face, little droplets splattering onto the space beneath him.

Dean spreads his too-thin fingers while his vision goes blurry. Suddenly, he has the urge to just be _empty,_ and he ends up sticking two of those digits down his throat, tasting copper when his nails scrape against something. He chokes and gags, but nothing comes out, but he keeps trying and trying, sobbing for relief.

He wakes up in the library, throat hoarse and aching. Sam’s hands are on his shoulders, shaking him, but all Dean can focus on is the spit and blood sliding down his throat.

❦ ❦ ❦

Sam follows through with his promise, preparing simple meals (because the kid still hasn’t learned his way around the kitchen) for the two of them to eat. He’ll drag Dean over to the table where the two plates are resting, sitting there even after he’s done with his meal and Dean’s only halfway through.

He never says a word while Dean’s struggling to finish, and he doesn’t look at Dean as well. Sam will usually have his laptop, tablet, or phone with him, probably searching for another hunt ( _or,_ Dean’s mind whispers, _researching ways to help you_ ).

Dean’s forced to sit there after he’s done, waiting for the food to settle to not worry Sam. If he hopped up and dashed the bathroom immediately after, then it’d just cause more problems between them. 

It was hard to do, but Dean worked through it for about a week and a half. Even though he felt sluggish, and often felt sick from all that he was eating, he made it through and went back to sticking his fingers down his throat after every meal.

A part of him feels a little guilty for tricking Sammy like this, but the other part (the one that actually thrives on the sick feeling, the emptiness, the sweat, the blood) pushes that aside and encourages him to keep doing it.

 _It would be so much easier if he didn’t figure out how messed up his brother is,_ Dean thinks one night on the bathroom floor, spitting into the bowl.

He goes about his days like this: eat, puke, research, sleep, eat, puke, relax, drink, eat, puke, sleep. Dean feels more and more worn down as time drags on by, and the sight of food starts bugging him, and then it shifts to irritation, and then anger.

And then one afternoon, he’s messing around with food (a simple sandwich), feeling too queasy to eat. Sam keeps tossing him these expectant looks, opening his mouth like he’s got something to say, and then shutting it with a sharp _click._

His head’s hurting, his stomach’s hurting, his vision’s going blurry at the edges, he’s running on three hours of sleep, and Dean’s just _done._

“Dean,” Sam finally says after a while. “Come on. You need to eat.”

Dean screws up his mouth, glaring down at his meal. “Yeah, well,” he replies with a shrug, nails digging into his palm. “I’m not hungry.”

(Except that he is, and he also isn’t—that’s the thing about hunger, it lingers and claws at your insides until you’re aching, but when you’ve finally got food in front of you, the thought of eating it makes you feel sick. When Dean was younger, he would work through it to eat bits and pieces, enough to be able to keep little Sammy safe. 

Now? He doesn’t care.)

“Just—try, Dean,” Sam says. He sounds tired, forlorn, frustrated; all because of Dean. 

He thinks his hands might be bleeding, judging by the way his nails are scraping against skin, over and over again as he figures out a response. Suddenly, he’s standing up, glaring at Sam now, all of those negative emotions spilling over the cracks. “I don’t want to,” he grits out and turns with the intention to leave. 

“Dean!” There’s that sharp bite of _anger/disappointment/fear_ in Sam’s voice, and it just comes out in all the wrong ways when he continues with, “Come back and _eat!_ ”

And it’s too much for Dean to handle. He whirls around, trembling with rage, and strides over with purpose, snatching the sandwich up once his close and shoving the disgusting thing into his mouth.

“There!” he says with a mouthful. “I’m eating! I’m freakin’ eating, just like you wanted!” Dean makes a show of chewing, swallowing, and opening his mouth to show that it’s all gone, before taking another bite. “See? _SEE?_ I’m fine, Sam! I’m eating!”

“Okay, okay,” Sam says with wide eyes, hands raised in surrender. “I-I get it, Dean, just… put it down, man. I don’t want you to get sick.”

Dean lets the sandwich fall out of his hand, plopping onto the table. There’s a smear of _something_ on his face, and there’s a piece of lettuce on his hand. “I ate,” he croaks out. “Now leave me the hell alone.”

With that said, he turns and (finally) makes his way out of the room, pretending that everything’s fine and dandy until he’s certain that he’s not in Sam’s line of sight. He stumbles into the nearest bathroom and locks the door, slamming down onto the floor and forcing the sandwich back up.

It hurts so much worse this time, and he nearly chokes on it, and there’s no high to chase when he’s trembling on the floor afterwards, only the sensation that he’s wobbling on the edge of death. Dean spits into the bowl, unsurprised (and only slightly worried) to see the red tinge to his saliva.

 _Should take a break from that,_ he thinks, pushing himself up once his stomach settles. Dean stands on shaking legs and stumbles over to the sink, palms flat on the counter to keep himself steady. 

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection, grimacing at the _food/vomit/blood_ smeared on the corner of his mouth. Sweat drips down the side of his face, and his heart’s beating too erratically. Dean fumbles with the sink and turns the water on, ducking his head so he can rinse his mouth out and wipe his face down. Even that simple task leaves him winded, and he blinks rapidly to remove the black spots in his vision.

“You’re fine,” he whispers. Bruised eyes and a gaunt face stare back at him, and he wets his cracked lips. “You’re just fine, Dean.”

And suddenly, he imagines Castiel appearing behind him. The idea is so vivid and real that Dean actually does see him in the mirror, for a split second. Dean stares with wide eyes, and then whirls around, lips curving upwards.

“Cas—” he starts, stopping when he sees that no one’s there. Dean slowly faces the mirror again, and something inside him breaks when there’s nothing there, either. He raises a shaking hand and places it on the mirror, unable to stop the tears from coming.

“Just come back to me,” he pleads to no one, closing his eyes. “Please come back to me.”

Dean sinks to the cold floor, curling up into a ball. His chest is hurting, but he knows it’s not a physical pain, no, and he also knows that there’s no cure.

❦ ❦ ❦

When Dean was younger, he never really understood when people said that someone ‘died of a broken heart.’ It was a metaphor that was unknown to him, something he couldn’t unravel without help. None of the adults bothered to explain it to a little kid, and so Dean was forced to seek knowledge on his own.

And he did.

As Dean grew older, he understood the ‘broken heart’ thing in different ways, and he learned that it doesn’t necessarily have to be about romantic love.

Dean’s heart broke when Sam left for Stanford without a goodbye, when their father died and left him with the parting words that went against his very being. His heart shattered when Sam died in his arms, his baby brother gone in a flash, and he felt it again when he watched Sam fall into the cage with Lucifer riding in him, knowing that he might never see his brother again.

He felt it when their friends started dying, when dad’s friends started dying, when the Harvelles died, when Bobby died.

When Cas died.

With the others, it always felt like something had taken a chunk out of him, until he was left with so many missing pieces that he could never be made whole. With Sam, it was an open wound that could never heal until it was made right, pulsating with _sorrow/anger/pain/grief._

Cas’s deaths left an empty void inside of him, like his heart was torn out and he was left as a shell, too broken to go on. He didn’t care about himself, in those days, and he had moments where he honestly preferred death over anything else.

And that remains true even here.

❦ ❦ ❦

“Can you try to keep living?” Cas asks. “Can you do that for me?”

They’re sat beneath the stars this time, the sky streaking with meteors and the wildlife buzzing around them. Dean exhales, breath misting in front of him, and glances over at the angel, sorrow coursing through him.

“You’re not even here,” he murmurs. “What’s the point?”

Cas shifts closer, until they’re pressed together, thigh against thigh. “Will you try for Sam? Jack?”

Dean shakes his head. As much as he gives up everything for Sam, to be with him, to keep the family together, this is the one thing he’s going to selfishly cling to. “And before you say it,” he says. “I’m not going to do it for myself, either.”

And suddenly, he’s facing Cas, their knees bumping together as they stare into each other’s eyes. “Please,” Cas says. _Begs._ “I need you to live, Dean. I don’t want to come back to a world where you’re no longer existing.”

“Stop saying things like that,” Dean says, hands clenched in his lap. His eyes prick with the onslaught of tears, and he lets out a ragged breath. “It’s just gonna get my hopes up, man. I _know_ this isn’t real, but I can’t stop you from doing that.” He lifts his head, tearfully looking at the image of Cas. “So, whatever part of my brain that you’re from,” he adds. “Please. Stop.”

“Dean,” Cas breathes, and then he’s reaching up with one hand, placing it over Dean’s left arm. Everything starts to glow with white-blue light, and Dean feels his skin burn—is this how it felt when Cas dragged him out of Hell? “I’m going to find a way out. I’m going to come back to you. And I’m going to save you.”

Dean smiles humorlessly. “Don’t need to be saved,” he replies.

The light dies down around them, but Castiel’s eyes continue to glow as he stares at Dean with that little tilt to his head. “You do,” he says simply. He lifts two fingers and places them on Dean’s forehead, and he feels a surge of warmth travel through his body. Dean whimpers at the sensation, wrapping a hand around Cas’s wrists, clinging to him desperately.

“Cas,” he rasps.

Cas meets his gaze, and offers up one of those tiny half-smiles, the ones that he tries to hide (but Dean always catches because he’s already looking at Cas). “Live,” he says, and then—

Dean wakes up on the bathroom floor. His mouth still tastes like vomit, but his stomach’s not hurting, his head isn’t swimming, and he feels… fine? He stands up and doesn’t sway, and when he glances at the mirror, he’s surprised to see a little color on his face.

His left arm aches, though.

He brushes his right hand over it, trying to find the source of the soreness. Dean pauses when he feels raised skin on his upper bicep, and he peels his multiple layers off, turning to face the mirror as he pushes up his shirt sleeve.

There lies a handprint that disappeared long ago, looking as fresh as it did when he crawled out of his grave after his trip downstairs; the mark that says his soul’s been touched by an angel.

Dean covers it with his hand and breathes the name of his savior:

_“Castiel.”_

❦ ❦ ❦

Dean feels monumentally stupid. 

Then again, no one could fault him for believing that his dreams of Cas were manifestations of his grief rather than knowing that it was actually Cas reaching out to him.

After finding the handprint, he makes his way out of the bathroom and rushes back to Sam, half of his clothes off as he shows Sam the handprint. Sam doesn’t get it, at first, but he’s also seen Dean’s arm a lot (pre-handprint, handprint, and post-handprint), so he eventually sees what a big deal it is.

Sam scours the library for books on the Empty, wanting to find a way to get Cas out of there, and Dean joins him on occasion. While Sam’s distracted, it’s easy for him to start skipping meals again, and he’s pleased when he reaches the point where he has to make more notches on his belt to keep his pants from slipping off his slim waist.

Hope dwindles as more and more time passes without a solution, and Dean eats even less. He stops talking, too, voice locked up in a place that doesn’t want to release it. Sam doesn’t mind, though. He seems to understand that it’s Dean’s way of getting through this.

Sammy was always good at understanding him.

Even in his dreams, he doesn’t speak, but Cas never seems to mind. He fills the voice with his own voice, discussing the moments that they shared, the future he would have liked to see, and his quiet observations about Dean’s slowly declining health.

(“You’ll be gone by the time I come back,” Cas says sadly.

Dean smiled at him, content and serene, and slowly signed, rusty from lack of use, _“I can’t stop.”_ )

❦ ❦ ❦

“I think we need help from Jack,” Sam says one day. He’s looking tired and unkempt, but the determination in his eyes doesn’t waver. “He’d probably know a way to get Cas out of the Empty.”

 _“Busy,”_ Dean signs. _“Do not disturb.”_

Sam pursed his lips, but the slump of his shoulders tells Dean that he had the exact same thought. “Doesn’t hurt to try, right?” he asks, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I mean, what harm could some prayers do?”

Dean offers a half-hearted smirk. _“Depends,”_ he replies. _“Worth a shot, though.”_

And so, in between all of the researching, and a couple of nearby hunts, Dean and Sam pray to Jack. The former doesn’t cling to his hope, knowing that Jack’s busy doing godly work (and that thought always made a flicker of pride appear in his chest). He still prays, though, and keeps it simple— _Hey, Jack. It’s Dean. Just wanted to know if you could somehow stop by at some point. We need your help with something. Thanks._

Nothing comes out of it for a while, so Dean keeps to his schedule. His scraped knuckles start to heal and scab over from the lack of vomiting, and he’s losing more weight. He does manage one small meal with Sam (who remains wary after Dean’s previous outburst), but other than that, Dean’s close to being fine.

Sure, there’s the dizziness, the black spots, the easy way that he bruises, and also the few fainting spells that he managed to keep to his room, but really, it’s (almost) fine.

It’s a regular day when Jack arrives. Dean got up and made breakfast for Sam, and he dirtied a plate up in the process so Sam can believe that he ate something.

There’s no guilt over lying anymore, just the small satisfaction that he’s keeping this thing close to his chest, and that it won’t be taken away from him. It might be a little fucked up, but a part of him connects it to Cas—the dreams started after he stopped eating, after all.

So, Jack appears in the room one day, no rustle of feathers to announce his presence. He’s just there one moment, staring at them with something like serenity, and it’s enough to make both Dean and Sam jump in their seats.

“Jack!” Sam exclaims, and there’s joy in his eyes. “It’s so good to see you!” He rises from his chair and strides over, wrapping his arms around Jack like old times.

“Hello, Sam,” Jack says and returns the embrace for a moment. He still looks the same, but also so, so _different_ —otherworldly and alien. Jack radiates a calmness that makes Dean relax, and when Dean blinks, he thinks he sees a glow surrounding the kid.

“You prayed for me,” he says plainly, inching closer to the table they’re sitting at. “Both of you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says, looking a little awkward. He rubs the back of his neck, messing up the hair resting there, and adds, “We need your help with something.”

“Do you need me to heal Dean?” Jack asks, and there’s that expression that spells out his eagerness to please. “I could make him better with just a snap of my fingers.”

“No snapping,” Sam says quickly, shaking his head. Dean was just about to sign that, but once again, he and his brother are on the same wavelength. “And, uh, that’s not why we wanted you here.”

 _“I’m fine,”_ Dean signs to Jack.

“You don’t look fine,” Jack replies, face falling.

Sam purses his lips, looking a little bitchy. “We both know he’s not, but this isn’t something that you can just… magic away,” he says, stumbling over his words near the end. “It’s, uh—”

Dean claps his hands together to get their attention, wanting to get off the subject of his issues and onto the matter at hand. _“It’s Cas,”_ he explains, making sure to go slow. Signing fast tends to mess him up. _“Need help getting him out of the Empty.”_

Jack hums, nodding to himself. “Okay,” he says. “I can do it.”

“Just like that?” Sam asks, sounding surprised. “No ritual, no spell, no anything?”

“All I need is a connection to him,” Jack replies with a tiny smile. “Considering I chose him as my Father, I’d say that’s enough.” He lets out a breath. “But it would be easier if we had what’s tethering him to Earth. There has to be something, right?”

“Dean,” Sam answers promptly.

Jack turns to him with expectant eyes, and Dean sighs, sitting up in his chair.

 _“Cas has been seeing me in my dreams,”_ he signs. _“I didn’t realize that it was actually him until he healed me, and left the handprint on my arm.”_ Dean proceeds to take off the left sleeves of his jacket, his other jacket, his button-up, his second button up, and then he rolls up his short sleeve to expose the handprint.

“Healed you?” Sam questions while Jack moves closer. “Why did he heal you?”

 _Probably because my body’s trying to shut down,_ Dean thinks, warily watching as Jack leans close to the handprint. _Or maybe because my throat was close to being burnt to hell by all the vomit coming out of me. I dunno, Sam. Take your pick._

He offers a shrug, signing, _“I don’t know, Sam.”_

Sam doesn’t believe him, of course, but understanding blooms on his face, and Dean can’t handle the way his brows pull in sadness, the way he droops with realization. Dean turns his attention to Jack so he doesn’t have to look at him, tensing up when Jack slots his hand over Cas’s handprint, not quite fitting with the brand.

Dean feels a spark of _something_ within him, charged enough to make him gasp. He clutches his stomach and lurches forward when it gets stronger, vivid light, pure and white, flashing before his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, and Dean’s left hunched over in his chair, shivering from the sensation.

“What was that?” Sam asks, and Dean’s grateful to his brother for voicing the question that he can’t ask.

“I wanted to see if it was really Cas,” Jack says. “And it is, I felt his grace through the handprint, and I’ve also pinpointed his location in the Empty.” 

Dean lifts his head, staring up at Jack (his family, his _son_ ), and shakily signs, _“Can you get him out?”_

Jack smiles, and it feels like nothing’s wrong in the world. “Yes,” he answers. “I can.”

❦ ❦ ❦

For this to work, Jack tells Dean that he has to be asleep. He offers to help with that, but Dean just waves him away. It’s getting easier and easier to sleep these days, exhaustion dragging him down and easily sweeping him into darkness.

So, he lies down in his bed with Sam leaning against the doorway, and Jack standing beside him, one hand hovering over the handprint. Dean’s stomach is churning with nerves, and excitement plucks at his veins. He hopes this works because if it doesn’t, Dean might not have enough energy to keep on going.

“You might see glimpses of the Empty,” Jack says quietly. “But whatever you see, whatever you hear— _don’t_ let it get to you, Dean. We can’t break the connection before we get to Cas.”

 _“So, what do I do?”_ Dean asks, struggling to keep his hands steady. _“Wait for him to appear in my dream? Find him first?”_

“Either works,” Jack answers. “If he doesn’t come to you right away, then we might need to go to him.” He pauses, and then adds, “I’m sure this will work, Dean. The Empty can’t deny me, I think.”

 _“Don’t get cocky,”_ Dean scolds.

Jack laughs softly, and it makes something inside Dean _ache._ He misses the kid so much, the bunker is emptier without him. “I won’t,” he promises, and then his face shifts to something serious, older. “Now, sleep. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

It doesn’t take long for Dean to follow that order.

His dream is hazy this time, warping at the edges, light and dark clashing together, bleeding into each other and creating this soft, muted gray. This time, he’s sitting on a park bench with no other person in sight, hands clasped demurely in his lap.

He tilts his head toward the sky, observing the way the sun flickers into the moon, the way the stars flash onto the sky, the way the clouds roll over and dissipate. Dean wets his lip, feeling heavier than usual, but he doesn’t move from his spot, waiting, hoping.

Then, a rustle of feathers, the smell of a lightning strike and fresh nature after rain, and a soft, serene, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean smiles, small and pleased, and he tries to get his face to calm when he looks at Cas. He doesn’t think it works, judging by the way Cas’s eyes light up and smile, his lips twitching as if to showcase his joy. _“Cas,”_ he greets and then pats the empty space beside him. _“Take a seat, man.”_

Cas moves silently, sitting down beside Dean with their knees gently knocking together. Dean’s the one to reach out this time, brushing his fingers against Cas’s hand, and then Cas is the one to grab Dean’s hand, the touch sending a jolt of electricity down his spine.

 _“We’re gonna get you outta here,”_ he says. Thunder rumbles in the distance and the leaves on the trees shift with the wind. _“And you’re gonna be with us again.”_

Dean feels something tickle the back of his head, and when he glances back, he thinks he spies a flash of black, a hint of feathers, but it’s gone in the next blink, and Cas is clearing his throat.

“I wish it could have been me and my own power that got myself out of here,” he says quietly, and then he tangles their fingers together while Dean’s heart jumps to his chest. “But I’m glad that you came for me, Dean. All of you.”

 _“Of course,”_ Dean signs. _“We’re family.”_

But even though it’s the truth, the word doesn’t quite fit with what Dean sees when he looks at Cas. It’s a different word that he sees, one that lingers on the tip of his tongue, desperate to come out, but Dean’s fear holds him back, gnarled fingers shoving it down, down, down until it’s almost lost.

Cas arches a brow, a bit of humor entering his voice when he says, “I think we’ve grown beyond that, Dean.”

(And Dean hears the echo in his head— _I love you, I love you, I love you._ )

 _“Yeah,”_ Dean replies, free hand slow. _“Guess we have.”_

(It’s the closest he’ll get to saying it back.)

The darkness around them starts fading, leaving them in a peaceful atmosphere. Dean breathes in the scent of Cas, feeling grounded by his touch, and gently squeezes his hand. He feels a tug on his left arm, and it’s easy for him to sign, _“Let’s go home.”_

❦ ❦ ❦

Jack sticks around long enough for them to have one nice night together, the four of them sitting around a table with a meal that Dean managed to cook up. Everyone’s tired, loose around the edges, but that doesn’t stop them from having a nice time, contentment flowing through the room.

Cas is a warm weight beside him, and he remains that way even after Sam turns in for the night, the clock indicating it’s way past midnight. Their ankles link together by the time Jack stands up, leaning down to wrap his arms around the both of them before disappearing to do what he needs to do.

And the room falls silent, Dean’s heart quickening with every breath that Cas takes, skin itchy with the knowledge that the angel is really here. 

His meal remains untouched before him. None of the pieces made its way to his mouth—he just swirled it around his plate, happily distracted by the conversation and merriment that was going on. Now, he can feel Cas’s gaze burning into him, and he knows that Cas is concerned, maybe even angry.

“Do you think you can eat?” Cas asks.

Dean wets his lips, stares down at the food again, and shakes his head. His stomach rolls at the thought, but it also twists over the idea that he’s letting Cas down by failing to be a functioning human being.

“Face me,” Cas says next. “I’ll help you.”

 _Maybe Cas means that he’ll feed me like a child,_ Dean thinks as he follows Cas’s command, turning the chair to face him while the angel does the same. He should be angry about it, but all Dean feels is tired. Maybe a part of him craves to have the empty void in his gut filled, he doesn’t know.

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, reaching out with one strong hand to grab Dean’s too-thin, too-weak one. “I should have been here for you.”

Dean shrugs, pulling his hand back to sign. _“Maybe,”_ he says. _“This would have happened with or without you, though.”_

Cas releases an unhappy sigh. “I suppose you’re right,” he murmurs. He then reaches over to Dean’s plate and scoops up some eggs (Jack wanted breakfast for dinner, and Dean was happy to oblige). Instead of feeding it to Dean like he thought he would, Cas slips the forkful into his mouth.

 _“Cas?”_ Dean signs uncertainty, dropping his hands when Cas shakes his head. He watches, transfixed, as Cas chews the eggs with the laser-focus that’s usually reserved for fights. Eventually, he stops, and then he reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, tugging him closer.

Their lips meet, and Dean stiffens in surprise. He does nothing when Cas coaxes his lips open with his tongue, and he shudders when it brushes against his own. It doesn’t go beyond that, though. Instead, Cas delicately guides the chewed-up eggs into Dean’s mouth, feeding him.

Dean swallows, not feeling sick. He stares at Cas with wide eyes when the angel leans back, gazing at him seriously, and then Cas scoops up some more eggs, doing the same thing he did before.

And when Cas reaches for him again, Dean is there to meet him, allowing the food to enter his mouth without complaint.

They get through half the plate before Dean starts to feel queasy, and Cas simply sits with him, thumb rubbing soothing circles against his neck. By the time his stomach settles, it’s past two in the morning, but Dean feels good, content.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice rough and rusty.

Cas says nothing in return, but he does squeeze Dean’s neck. He also leans forward and presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead, soft and feather-light, carrying all of the things that remain unsaid between them.

❦ ❦ ❦

It doesn’t just magically get better.

Dean still struggles to eat, and it takes a lot of time for him to actually eat full meals without getting sick. Sometimes, he fucks up and ends up bent over the toilet with two fingers down his throat. Sam finds out after Dean does it just a few feet away from the Impala outside a shitty diner, and he’s pissed to Hell and back.

But he doesn’t shout at Dean, doesn’t force him to eat more. Instead, he sits with Dean after his small meal, rubbing his back and helping him wait for the nausea to pass, sticks with him until Dean doesn’t feel like making himself throw up.

Cas is there for him, too, and his presence _does_ make things better, but nothing can completely take away the months and months of sickness.

Still, he’s the one who sits with Dean in the late hours, who helps Dean eat when he can’t lift a fork. And after it’s all done, Cas will help Dean to bed, peeling off all the layers of clothing that he wears and guiding him beneath the covers. His hands are always gentle and warm, leaving burning trails on his skin that Dean thinks about well into the next day. Cas always sits on the edge of the bed, gazing down at him with a softness that makes him tremble, and no nightmares follow him when he sleeps.

Sometimes, Cas will curl up beside him. Sometimes, when he’s particularly bold, he’ll wrap an arm around Dean’s middle and tug him closer, his body plastered against Dean’s back, keeping him protected and warm.

They stop hunting while Dean relearns how to eat, how to talk, and how to be a person. Not that there was really anything these days—he suspects that it’s Jack’s doing.

He puts on more weight, more muscle, and he edges closer to some semblance of normal. It’s not easy, it never is, but there are times when the _fork/spoon/knife_ isn’t heavy in his hands, when the food smells _great/delicious/appetizing_ and he’s not feeling _sick/nauseous/weak_ at the sight of it.

Dean gets angry still, feeling coddled and suffocated by Cas and Sam’s expectant gazes, pressured by all the food sitting on the table, in his stomach, but he’s always the first to pick up whatever _glass/bowl/plate_ that he accidentally shattered, always the first to put his face in his hands and choke out an apology.

It’s hard and it sucks, but Cas and Sam (and sometimes Jack) are there with him every step of the way, supporting hands warm against his shoulders.

He knows that he’s not going to magically get better, that he’s got a lot of hurdles to jump over in order to fully recover. Dean will definitely fuck up now and then, when the stress gets too much or when he needs some semblance of control, but despite that, for the first time in forever, he feels okay.

He feels hope.

❦ ❦ ❦

In his dream, they’re swaying to some old music playing on the gramophone. Dean is pressed close to Cas, hands clasped together as they follow the beat of the music and their hearts. He’s content, happy, healthy, and Cas is so warm and alive in his arms.

“Can’t believe I almost missed out on this,” Dean murmurs. He brushes his lips across Cas’s forehead, feeling warm when he sees the affection in Cas’s eyes. It makes Dean’s throat dry, and then he asks in a slightly pleading whisper, “Can you say it, Cas?”

“I love you,” Cas says easily—and it probably is, now that they’re together again. “I love you, Dean Winchester, now and forever.”

Dean can’t help the twitch of his lips, the way his heartbeat speeds up. When he opens his mouth, no sound comes out, and he sighs, aggravated with his inability to say those words (the ones that Cas deserves to hear) back.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Cas says quietly. “I already know.”

But Dean shakes his head. He ponders the situation and steps away when an idea hits him, slowly lifting one hand and signing, _“I love you.”_

Cas’s face brightens, so subtle but _there,_ and Dean feels happiness blooming in his chest, warm and ever-lasting. He drifts toward Cas again, and they continue their dance, pressed close together like they could meld soul into grace.

❦ ❦ ❦

When he wakes up, Sam asks if he’s hungry.

Dean smiles at his little brother, Cas’s hand warm in his, and he says, “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you.


End file.
